


heretic

by oceansinmychest



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Comfort Reading, F/F, Hint of Serena/June, Mentions of Serena/June at the end, One Shot, Reading, References to Paradise Lost, References to the Divine Comedy, Religious Conflict, Season/Series 02, Serena Joy-centric, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 15:36:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21340591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: In the privacy of her home, Serena Joy reads and rereads an old, battered copy of Paradise Lost.
Relationships: June Osborne | Offred/Serena Joy Waterford
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33





	heretic

**Author's Note:**

> I just completed a reread of Paradise Lost which greatly influenced this piece! I do wonder what the next season of THT will entail for Serena and June, but I'm stuck on S2/early S3 ramblings for them.

> “Outside these walls, I may be irrelevant, but here I’m the Old and the New Testament.”
> 
> _legendary_ \- nicole sealey

Pretzeled into a position only Serena Joy deems comfortable, she finds reprieve from domesticity’s entrapment in an oversized, plush armchair which she sinks into. Under the gaudy, green fabric, the upholstery pushes back. She draws her knees up towards her belly. With an elbow perched on the armrest, her idle hand twists and ever so delicately does her thumb caress her itching palm. She is filled with a great, scratching emptiness only describable as a persistent want. 

Perhaps she is a coward for hiding within this inner sanctum, for closing herself off, for doing too much or too little. In absence, Serena reclaims Fred's study as her own. Away from Commanders, away from Marthas, away from Handmaidens - from Fred, from Offred, from everything – she drinks in the moment. Only Gentileschi can capture her cruel beauty in a portrait.

No, this is not paradise, but a moment of peace does suffice. She finds solace in antiquity. Hailed as paragon, this is her private rite.

A 1668 First Edition copy of John Milton’s _Paradise Lost_ sits in her lap. Her aunt, Joan, had given this to her as a precious gift before Gilead’s reign. How she coveted this treasure, hid it from Fred though he was often wont to turn the cheek to her ways. Such propaganda could wage another Holy Crusade. Beside her, a cup of earl grey tea has long since cooled, neglected by her voracious appetite to continue the story. The hypocrisy of loving a banned book is not lost on her. She feels like a child again (_again_) coveting a fairytale treasure. Her fingers flex before she grips the rigid spine, creased in the corners from a militant love. The tome smells of archaic secrets and sensational radicalism. Serena cherishes the bound text, the aged scent of paper that has outlived torment, agony, and history.

Poetry speaks to Serena. She reaches for it in the midst of this harsh realm. When she can’t quite reach the safe space that is her greenhouse, she turns to the music of fiction. There’s a comfort in being alone, in letting her meticulous mind wander. Hair down, free of the restrictive, authoritarian bun, she attempts to relax, only to lose herself further to the furniture of this strict home. Yet, the pull of her shoulders keeps her spine upright. Against the flickering candle, she strains her eyes. Squints and narrows steel blue in one light and blue-green in another. One page slithers and leaps to the next.

She reads with her mouth slightly agape, her not-perfect, not entirely-straight teeth exposed.

What’s the fascination with devils and angels?

Gilead, like Pandemonium, is bound to collapse in on itself.

Perhaps the ways of the new are no better than the ways of the old. Gilead **is** Pandemonium, a place fallen far from Old America’s ways, celebrated as some holy right now deemed a wrong by every other sovereign land. Over time, it troubles Serena, but she swallows it. Swallows her voice. Swallows the rebellious bits of herself.

Cold and austere, she is a kept woman now who rebels inwardly against such a station. Revolutions still live on inside her head. She dreams of her tailored suits, her clever comebacks, and her soapbox to proudly stand before. Her bones grow cold. She wets her thumb to skim through the pages. Tethered to this chair, restrained by her home, the wedding band around her finger feels so heavy. It’s a life of servitude all the same. Kept and bound to her beliefs, this is her mandated prison sentence despite her status as Commander Waterford’s wife. The cross beneath her trim, proper dress beats against her chest. Revelation winds her: _I have done this to myself._

In concentration, lashes flutter while her breathing slows to a steady rhythm. Not a single distraction shakes off her disappointment 

At times, she believes that she is mad, her thoughts electric and negative, charging a belligerent attack that knows no fiery end, no kind compromise. However, this epic doesn’t end with Hell. Starved for a cigarette, for a sliver of the old world, and a spark of America’s gorey, glory past. Serena pauses to pluck a cig from its silver tomb. Ignites it with a bent match. She banishes the lingering flame. Blows it out with a wolfish puff. In between pages, she takes a ragged drag.

Momentarily, Serena finds herself preoccupied by the resurrected memory of a cigarette. She craves since she’s human. Her mouth waters at the thought of the fruit’s sweet juices bursting. From temporary fulfillment, she nearly groans. So brand her a heretic for failing to adhere to the Cult of True Womanhood.

If only she led a quiet life. If only she didn’t crave, didn’t yearn, desperately for more. Never meant to play the role of modest, silent wife, her hungry ambition drives her wild. Magellan sought fame and fortune and what did it get him? What did it get her? Her jaw clenches as she experiences a flare of anger, searing. She inhales deeper this time before expelling the smoke from her blackened lungs. She neglects the pain that worms into her fingers, into the very marrow of her bones, which she thought had been rendered hollow after all this time.

Snuffing her cig, she reads far faster than the pace of a litany progression. Smoke offers one, last dying breath. Serena can’t read it through in one, hours-long session like she used to. This isn't practice for a college debate; it's a reprieve from her glory shadowed by her husband. She notes the absence of light in the room, the stinging of her eyes that feels as if they’ll ooze out of her sockets reminds her of university days. Just as it happens in literature, light and dark provide contrast. Shadows paint a skull over her sunken cheekbones, her pale skin. Absolution gnaws at her chest and curdles her stomach. Her heart forms a stone.

Full of contradictions galore, Milton’s Lucifer experienced such an agonizing fall. In rumination, Serena recognizes that all this pain must be for a reason. A tenacious woman struggles with herself. Thrust into the starring role of Bluebeard’s wife, childbearing brings such pain yet her womb remains empty, null and void. Serena’s sworn devotion goes unanswered.

Talks of Hell, Heaven, Chaos and Earth bleed and blend together. Fred never liked Milton’s work. Considered it a conundrum, a riddle beyond modern interpretation. In truth, Fred began to bore her, his black and white thinking as drab as scripture uninterpreted or skewed for ill intent. All of the Commanders demand obedience just as God did. What if she doesn’t **want** to repent? What exactly does that make her? 

During the tale of Adam and Eve, her brow furrows. A pointed finger traces pretty bow lips. Her teeth scrape her tongue. Always, the serpent manages to tempt. Satan’s perversions in tempting the fair maiden make Serena contemplate the snake in her life - who is the Devil, if not herself?

Stuck on Book IX, her free hand bookmarks the page. Her knees shift so that her feet meet solid ground once more. Afflicted by a papercut, she laps at the beaded blood. Slapping a plaster on will make it all better. Perhaps she'll taunt Offred, have her do it for her, and kiss the saintly wound. She hasn’t lost a finger yet. Self-inflicted penance; that sort of pain doesn’t interest Serena, pain onto others is another story.

In Hell, what circle would she condemn herself to?

She neglects the hypothetical, brought to the present.

Without a knock to announce her arrival, June seeks her out: a woman trapped within the yellow wallpaper that swears to be her orthodox. Carefully, Serena considers her next betrayal – the removal of the wife’s teal brand. She loosens her collar. Exposes her pale throat after a gulp. With red-rimmed eyes, she denies the Handmaid entry. Whispers a hoarse, fierce _"Get out"_ when she means _"Come in, please."_

Tomorrow, she’ll open conversation with June. Pry open her pretty lips and watch her skilled, lying tongue wag with such cunning. The delicious thought leaves much for contemplation.


End file.
